Unfinished Business
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Minor mistakes lead to major consequences.


**Author's Note**: Mark's a year and a half out of law school. This one includes brief references to _Mirage a Trois _and _She Ain't Deep but She Sure Runs Fast._

This originally appeared in _Pastisch a Trois, _the first volume of fundraising fics for Star for Brian, and I am, right at this very moment, taking a break from writing a story for volume number five of that series to post this. Many, many thanks to everyone who has supported our effort.

And to the betas: Owl, Cheri, and Susan Z., also my most sincere thanks.

**Unfinished Business**

By L.M. Lewis

"And right after the caterer threatened to quit, that's when Kathy suggested maybe McCormick needed to unwind a little. Only she was suggesting it kinda loud and using shorter words."

Frank made a face.

"It was the second caterer," Hardcastle said solemnly. "So . . . well, I suggested maybe we should get out of town, you know, let Kathy and her mom handle the rest of it. They're really good at this sort of thing. They do charitable events and all."

"I'm not sure Kathy'd appreciate that comparison," Frank said thoughtfully.

"You know what I mean, and, heck, better this than a bachelor party."

"Says who?"

"Hell, even Mark said he's too damn old for one. And everybody he hangs out with is older still . . . except for Teddy Hollins, and _he_ was the guy who was offering to arrange it." Hardcastle's shudder was almost imperceptible. "Nah, this'll be like a bachelor party—"

"Only with fish."

"Right." The judge nodded decisively.

"Well," Frank drawled, "I can sort of understand why he's tense, I mean, look what happened at his _last_ wedding."

Hardcastle looked at him blankly for a split second and then said "Oh . . . well, hell, that wasn't a _wedding_, that was a drug bust."

"With the brother's-in-law threatening to kill him and all." Frank whistled. "You'd think next to that, this oughta be a walk in the park."

"Still," the judge said, with only a tinge of worry coloring his confidence, "I think it'll do him a lot of good to just get up in the mountains and relax for the weekend."

00000

He hadn't been up to Clementine Creek since he was a kid. He didn't know why Evelyn wanted to meet him there now. But he'd cultivated something of a reputation for accessibility, at least among his middle-level staffers. It was all part of the image of transparency that he'd worked so hard to project for his campaign. Accountability, transparency, he knew all the buzz words.

But, most of all, Wilmont Etheridge knew how to say them with _sincerity_. After all, money could only go so far on the road to Washington. The rest had to be style. Put on the jeans, one foot up on the rail fence, staring off into the vista of a more hopeful tomorrow—the camera slightly below eye level.

Maybe Evelyn Campbell had some new ideas for campaign ad backgrounds. He got out of his pick-up—American-made—and sauntered over to her Honda Civic, frowning. He'd asked her to trade it in on something with a union label.

No Evelyn in sight. He didn't much like the visuals, either. Too much clutter, the old mine shack—he remembered playing there once as a kid. It had already been abandoned back then.

But then Evelyn wasn't really an image person. He'd brought her on board for words. She wrote impassioned speeches, and with a nice cadence, too.

"Wil?" Her voice came down to him from somewhere above and out of sight. He shaded his eyes and caught a glimpse of her, peering over the escarpment. "Go up around to your right, there's a path."

He followed her instructions. Scrambling up, he became annoyed. He'd already made up his mind; he wasn't bringing a film crew back here.

"Evie," he said, knowing it bothered her when he shortened her name like that, "we could have maybe conferenced somewhere closer to Sacramento."

"No, Wil, we couldn't," she replied, sounding a little annoyed herself. "I told you, I wanted to show you something."

He looked around slowly. It was a little more breathtaking from this vantage, but he still wasn't buying it as a good backdrop. "I've seen it all before," he said casually. "It's been in the family for _years_, Evie."

"I know," she said flatly. "That's the problem. This was Clementine #1." She gestured back over her shoulder toward the half-boarded up mouth of the abandoned mine. "Your great-great-grandfather founded it, right?"

"Yeah," Etheridge smiled. "He was the original Wilmont, came west with the forty-niners."

"And he introduced hydraulic mining to this section of the Sierras," Ms. Campbell added with a touch of asperity.

"No, this was a lode mine." Etheridge frowned. "Look, you can see that."

"That was when your _great_-grandfather took over, and hydraulics were outlawed in this area. I did some research. "Before that it was _all_ hydraulics and placer gravel. Look," she turned a pointed down the slope. "There are trees, now, so it's hard, but you can still see the outline."

Etheridge looked. He shrugged. "Yeah, well, okay. It was just the way things were done then."

"I know, but that's the problem. Surely you're aware of that? It's the mercury. They used an awful lot of it even just extracting gold from lode ore, but with the hydraulics . . . my God." She shook her head. "Water downstream from here has tested high. I klnow it's usually only in the spring with the melt-offs, and there are enough mines up here that no single one can take all the blame, but this one, one of the oldest, it _has_ to be a big part of the problem."

Etheridge narrowed his eyes a little. "This mine was closed forty years before I was born."

"Of course," Evelyn smiled, "but it is part of your _heritage_, the well-spring of your family's fortune, really. Think of it, Wil, what an opportunity to show leadership, to point the way for others. No one has been willing to take responsibility for these things up to now. The Superfund can only do so much."

"Do you know how much effort it takes to clean up a mine?" Wilmont asked grimly. "And do you know how it is, once the environmentalists get their hands on one of these issues? It's never good enough; you're never _finished_." Exasperation slipped through his usual, modulated tones. Evelyn looked at him in surprise.

"But, I—"

"But, _no_. Evie, dear, it would be a titanic public-relations disaster. Believe me."

There was silence. She stared at him for a long moment as though she'd never actually seen him before. Her lips grew a little narrowed, but not before she let slip a coldly uttered, "Expensive, too, no doubt."

He saw in that moment that he had lost her. Not that he'd ever had her in anything but an intellectual sense. Now, however, all that ardent devotion, all that damn _passion_, had, in an instant, turned to dripping vitriol. She turned on her heel, walking away.

He knew her or, at least, he knew her type. She loved words; no idea could stay silently trapped in her mind.

_She'll talk._

He reached out, trying to sound conciliatory. "Evelyn, please."

She wasn't stopping. She barely gave him a slight, impatient jerk of her chin over one shoulder. He grew a little more frantic, lunging forward and grabbing for her arm. She was just out of reach. He had her only by a handful of her sleeve, and she tried to free that, too. The whole time he was babbling words that were meant to appease, while he held her in place.

"_Wil_," she said, angrily impatient. Then she managed a sudden, stronger jerk and started to overbalance.

And just as suddenly, he let go.

Afterwards he would say to himself it hadn't been intentional. He watched her fall, one shriek and a dull thud as she struck some unfortunate part against an outcropping of rock, then landed awkwardly in a crevasse below. He saw here there, unmoving. He let out a breath.

He felt . . . relief.

_An accident.__Really. Awkward to explain, though._

_Does anyone know you came up here?_

_No._

He was only mildly surprised at his sense of coherence. He'd always been pretty good at this off-the-cuff thing. He knew how to extemporize. He looked around. He'd have to move her car. He had some gloves, thin leather for driving. He'd just move it somewhere a little more out of the way. She'd ended up in a narrow spot, really only visible from directly above. Let some time go by. There'd be a search, but no one would think to look up here. Six months, maybe a year. There wouldn't be much left of her by then. Maybe he'd even be the one to find the remains. A fall is a fall. 'And where were you in the summer of 1990?'

He smiled.

_I was on the campaign trail._

00000

"You know, kiddo, you gotta stop this worst-case scenario stuff," Hardcastle said sternly. "I don't know what's gotten into you. You'd think you had some kinda jinx or something."

Mark turned his head slowly and gave the man a hard stare of frank disbelief. Hardcastle was spared the full effect, because he was watching the road.

"All I'm saying is," the judge continued with a heavy sigh, "you're making everybody a little crazy here, all this gloom and doom. It's a wedding. You're supposed to be _happy_."

"I will be," Mark said grimly, "when it's over."

"See, that's what I mean. There you go again." He jerked the wheel of the truck sharply, taking the turn-off. "Listen, try this. We got three days up here, God's own country, nothing to do but relax and catch fish. Do you think you could maybe try to be a little positive?"

"Upbeat, optimistic?" Mark muttered.

"That's it." Hardcastle nodded cheerfully. "That's the idea. Just try it."

Mark said nothing for a moment. Then, casting a slow glance over his right shoulder, he said, "I think it's going to rain."

Hardcastle sighed again, then slowed the truck and took it off onto a gravel-strewn downward slope that barely qualified as a road. Mark drew himself up a little more and peer at his intended route. "We lost yet?"

"Nah, this is how you get there."

"That's a river down there," Mark pointed out, very sensibly.

"It's not a river—it's a creek."

"Crick?"

"_Creek_. Clementine Creek. And we're going to ford it. It's only about five inches deep this time of year. Best fishing is upstream about a mile. There's a clearing on the other side."

The front tires were already in the water and the cab jostled slightly from side to side as they felt their way over unseen snags and rocks.

"See?" Hardcastle grinned as they edged onto the upslope.

"How'd you know about these places?" Mark asked, settling back again.

"Oh, well, that's part of being a fisherman, knowing all the best spots." The judge smiled. "This one belongs to some cousins of Nancy's, the Etheridges. Old-time Californians."

"Etheridge?" Mark turned the name over in his memory. "The guy who's running for Congress. The one who smiles too much?"

"Yup, he's one of 'em." Hardcastle turned left along the water's edge and got their tires settled into a nearly-obscured set of tracks. "It's a family hobby, public service—generals, a couple of judges, too. Here we are."

They'd pulled into the clearing. It sloped up steeply at the far end toward some tumbled rocks, and, above that, some stepwise cliffs. To their left, the creek, narrower than it had been where they'd crossed it, burbled more enthusiastically.

Mark stepped out, stretched, and looked around. "Nice," he finally said. "Hey, what's that?" He pointed to a decrepit structure just visible through the trees near the top of the slope.

"Oh," Hardcastle looked over his shoulder as he let down the tailgate. "Used to be a mine here. That's all that's left."

Mark gave that a nod, then strolled toward the back of the truck and started off-loading their gear. "Where do you want to put the tent?"

00000

They set up camp with the efficiency born of experience. Hardcastle was secretly pleased that the younger man seemed to be following his advice—there was no more than the usual amount of grumbling and complaining, and he'd caught the kid, once or twice, looking up at the scenery with something resembling contentment.

From arrival to first cast of a lure into the water was no more than an hour, and from then on, they settled into the rhythm of fishing, cast and trail, enough bites to justify the activity, but not so many fish that they'd have to worry about what to do with them all.

Hardcastle was a focused fisherman, placing his casts with hard-won, scientific precision. Mark plunked, though the judge suspected there was some subliminal instinct there—he caught fish with more reliability than could be accounted for by luck.

He watched him downstream, negotiating with a fairly large brook trout, and, having finally added that to his creel, heard him say, "Okay, that's makes enough for dinner. Can we quit now?" But it was uttered cheerfully and Hardcastle batted off the notion with a gesture.

"What about breakfast?" He flicked another cast as the younger man waded back to shore.

"I'm getting pruney fingers." Mark walked up the bank carrying his rod and tackle in one hand and studying the other.

"Okay, you can clean the fish and start the fire." Hardcastle didn't have to look up from the water to know a face was being made behind him.

"I'm gonna go have a look at that building. _Then _I'll start the fire and clean the fish. And you'll be done fishing so you can help," McCormick added decisively.

"Yeah, well, watch your step up there. The place is falling apart. And there's cliffs and all. If I don't bring you back in one piece, Kathy'll have my hide."

00000

Mark wandered back up to the tent, and set his gear down alongside a log. The water hadn't been deep enough to justify waders, at least that's what he'd declared to Hardcastle at the outset, but it had been plenty cold—pure mountain run-off—and his bare feet were as pruney as his hands, not too mention dead numb.

Well, not quite numb. He sat down on the log and inspected his right heel.

"Dammit."

He muttered it softly, trying to get a grip on the end of the thorn that was protruding. A couple of tries produced a piece about a half-inch long and not quite tapered to a point. He shook his head and gave his heel a squeeze. No blood to be had in its current, thoroughly-chilled condition.

He looked up and over at the judge, still knee-deep in the stream, quite sensibly wearing waders, of course. He frowned, imagining the advice he was going to get on this one—most of which would be too late to do any good. Better a thorn in the foot, than one in the side.

He reached for his shoes and socks, left standing near the flap of the tent, and pulled them on. Then he stood and put his weight on that foot, tentatively. Not too bad, he concluded. With a little luck the thing would work its way out in a day or two; if not, he'd have Charlie Friedman take a look at it on Monday after they got back.

He walked toward the back end of the clearing, not even limping after a few steps, then clambered up the slope to the deserted shack. The door was more than unlocked. It hung a little crookedly on its rusted hinges and wouldn't close properly. Inside there was dust, cobwebs, a table, one chair with the caned seat rotted through, and a metal fire-pot. It was obviously a later addition, built into what had once been a small open hearth.

A calendar, still tacked to the wall by one corner, flyspecked and curled at the bottom edge, declared the date of abandonment to have been sometime in March of 1929. He gave it all one quick, glancing survey—not much to see. Then he turned and stepped back onto the porch.

The view was nice from up here, the creek glittering below, disappearing around the downstream bend at a spot where the valley was even narrower. He looked up, over his shoulder, at the cliff behind him. It curved out like a bulwark, very steep, perilously so in spots, but off to the right it looked do-able. There'd be as even better view from up there.

He stepped off the porch and climbed, trying to favor his right foot; it was starting to ache a little. He made it up, no problem, and was rewarded with a better vantage. The drop looked further from up here. He peered over the edge into the brushy depths and then took a cautious step back.

Hardcastle had hooked another one. It seemed big from the amount of tussle it was putting up. He remembered, late and a little bit guiltily, that he hadn't dealt with his own creel yet. He started down, very carefully minding his footing. No worst-case scenarios today; the 'I told you so' wouldn't be worth it.

00000

Etheridge put his car in the space reserved for him outside his campaign office a little after four. He'd stopped off home for a few moments, changed into a fresh shirt and washed his hands. He'd looked into the mirror and had seen a calm, relaxed man looking back at him.

The office visit would be routine—nothing remarkable for anyone to reflect back on, six months or a year from now. He'd have to dictate a letter, or maybe sign and date something, that would be a nice touch. Chances were, the exact date would be immaterial later on, but it was a sensible precaution. No one would remember exactly _when_ he'd come and gone, there would only be the proof that he had been at the office on the last day Evelyn had been seen, and then there would be his word for the rest of the details.

He stepped into the foyer, jacket hooked casually over his shoulder. Lindsey, the receptionist, was on the phone. She looked up and smiled, then nodded as she said good-bye to whoever was on the other end. She hung up and turned as he passed by toward his office.

"Mr. Etheridge, have you seen Evelyn, by any chance?"

He stopped, mid-step, but had his features arranged in the split-second that he paused before turning his face toward her. "No," he said, very calmly. He wondered if he should leave it at that, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Why?"

"Oh, probably nothing," the receptionist shrugged. "Just that it was Rudy, on the phone, you know, and he was asking. She was supposed to meet him a few minutes ago down in Fresno."

Wilmont managed a half-shrug, himself. "Probably running late, or she just forgot. Has a lot on her mind—" He bit his tongue, wondering where that last comment had come from. It didn't seem to matter, though, Lindsey had seized on the other part of his statement.

"But she doesn't usually _forget _things. I've never met anybody as organized as she is. Everything goes down in that darn notebook of hers. It's like a religion."

He realized he was standing there, with a smile frozen to his face, for more time than was prudent. _You knew about that notebook._ "Maybe she left it at home," he offered, more to himself than to the young woman.

"Hah, not her, never."

And, with a sudden, deep, soul-numbing certainty, Etheridge knew that was true.

_In the car, maybe. It's small, though. She might have had it on her._

He could almost picture the entry: 'Meeting: W.E., Clementine #1, 12 noon.' It would be the last thing she'd written, unless she'd already dabbled up a few words for him to say to the press about his plans to reclaim the land around his great-great-grandfather's toxin-ridden mine.

He became aware of Lindsey, talking at him. He brought her back into sharper focus. She looked concerned.

"You're okay?" she asked. Apparently it was at least the second time.

"Oh, yeah," he smiled vaguely. "Might have been too much sun." _Why the hell did you say __that_ He tried to put some conviction behind his smile. "A little headache, maybe," he added. Lindsey was giving him a slightly puzzled look.

He checked his watch. Almost four hours back to the Clementine. The light wouldn't hold even for a cursory search. He pushed that prospect down—made more sense to head up there first thing in the morning. But all thoughts of dictating a letter had faded away.

"I think I might just head home. Why don't you call it an early weekend, too, my dear." No more worried calls from Rudy in Fresno, at least no one here to intercept them.

Lindsey looked pleasantly surprised, but then nodded her acquiescence. He was still gracing her with a nonchalant smile.

_Damn notebook. _His smile was only a little strained._ Just fix that one little thing, everything else will be fine._

00000

There was the beginning of a campfire, and Hardcastle was feeding in a few pieces larger than kindling, by the time Mark got back down to the campsite. McCormick picked up both creels and a knife and took them to the water's edge, glad for a sit-down job.

"Nice view from up there, but there might be some clouds moving in." He gestured up and vaguely to the west with the knife.

The judge scowled warningly.

"I'm not saying it's necessarily _gonna_ rain," Mark sighed. "Sheesh. What's so gloom and doom about that? Come on. We got a nice tent."

"Okay," Hardcastle finally conceded. "You get a couple of points for admitting it was a nice view."

Mark carried the fillets over, arranging them on the grill. "Beats a stick," he said with a smile of recollection. "Dang it," he added sharply, "I forgot the lemon."

Hardcastle waved that away. "They'll be fine." He settled back down against the log. Mark fetched plates and forks, and then puttered in the cooler, taking out beers and the potato salad.

He dished up, then passed the plates to the older man for the adding of fish. Then he sat down alongside him, back against the log and beer in hand, thinking it was an awful lot of _work _to get to one plate of trout.

Then he took a deep breath and cancelled that thought. "It's nice out here," he said. "Very relaxing."

"Sure is."

"It was a good idea, coming up here," Mark conceded quietly.

"Sure was." Hardcastle smiled.

They settled down in silence to eating. The twilight gathered. When they were done, Mark consigned the scraps to the fire and rinsed the plates. He fetched out two more beers, and secured the cooler back in the truck—all sound bear precautions.

By now a flashlight was almost necessary, though he managed without. He was aware that the steady ache in his foot, which had been less when he was sitting down, was more like a throb. He was tempted to take a look at it, but by only lantern-light he doubted there'd be much to see. Morning would be soon enough.

He settled back down against the log. Hardcastle had lifted the grill off, and built up the fire against the chill of the evening mountain air. Mark looked up—not much night vision after looking at the flames, but he could see there were no stars; the cloud cover was passing over, not that he was going to point that out to anyone.

He smiled and looked back down at the fire again, a warm cocoon of light against the surrounding darkness. The prospect of rain was really not important. Hardcastle had already achieved what he'd probably set out to do. Mark realized he'd gone at least six hours without Thinking the Thought.

Even now that he _was_ thinking it, it seemed more manageable.

"How do you know if you're doing the right thing?" he blurted out, almost before he realized he was saying it.

"Huh?"

Mark didn't turn his head. He was still staring straight into the fire. "Getting married," he added quietly. "How do you know if it's right? Are you even supposed to _wonder_ if it's right?"

"Oh, _that_," the judge said, as though the question was a complete surprise. "Well, you love her; she loves you. You wanna be together. You get hitched." He said it in compact, sensible sentences that seemed to contain their own self-evident logic.

"She could leave me," Mark said soberly. "She did it before."

"She _likes_ you." Hardcastle pointed out. "She _wants_ to get married."

"Yeah," McCormick's voice sank a notch. "What's up with that? I mean—"

Hardcastle was already shaking his head before he interrupted, "You managed to scare her off before. It ain't gonna work this time. She's onto you."

Mark lifted his head and gave him a puzzled stare. "'Scare her off'?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle huffed, "all that ex-con, matched-set-of-baggage stuff. You pulled it off five years ago, and I've heard you the last couple of months, running it up the flagpole again every once in a while. She's not buying this time. She knows you too damn well.

"Listen," the judge said, leaning in toward the other man a little, as though he was imparting a secret, "They don't want perfect. And _everybody_ has baggage. Some of it's monogrammed, fancy leather stuff, but it's still baggage. Yours is just more _official_, that's all."

Mark smiled thinly. "What ya see is what ya get."

"Exactly." Hardcastle nodded. "And she's never thrown it back in your face, has she?"

"No, but—"

"And she won't, you wait and see. The first big blow-out fight you have, she'll pull something out, everybody does, and it'll be something that you had no idea was coming, like how maybe you don't signal your intentions when you make a right turn, or you put a pair of colored socks in the white load."

"Socks?" Mark said dubiously.

"Yeah, _socks_, not felonies." Hardcastle nodded again with an air of certainty. "But whatever it is, that won't be what it's really about. Never is. And everybody fusses and hollers sometimes. It's okay. You spend that much time together, you're gonna have to let off some steam. Important thing is, you don't let it fester. You go to bed friends every night."

Mark grinned.

"That's _not_ what I meant," the judge huffed again, but there was an edge of a smile to it. "Anyway," he added after a moment, "you'll fight, and you'll make up. That's how it is. And if you're lucky, you'll have a good long time to figure each other out . . . but I think she's already got your number."

"Probably," Mark grinned again. "Being an accountant." He felt a drop of rain, and another one plopped, hissing, into the edge of the fire.

"Told you so," he said, scrambling to his feet.

00000

The rain came down steadily most of the night, not torrents, though, and by morning it had eased off. Mark awoke, uncharacteristically, before dawn.

_One too many beers._

He put it off as long as he could, then crawled out of his sleeping bag, pulled on a jacket and fumbled for his shoes. His right foot throbbed. He frowned at that. Of course things always hurt worse the next day. Didn't necessarily _mean_ anything, and mentioning it this morning would fall under the headings of both whining, _and _'why the hell did you wait so long?' He wasn't sure how that was possible, but it was.

He unzipped the tent and limped out into the squelchy, gray morning, glad at least to see that the clouds had lifted enough that the sun might eventually break through. He went and did what he needed to do, then gave the river a look. It had gotten the promotion overnight. The place where the judge had been standing knee-deep yesterday, was now running two feet higher at considerably more than a burble.

He'd reduced the limp to a slight hobble by the time he'd gotten back over to the camp. Hardcastle was up, standing next to the tent, stretching and looking around. Mark got the once-over and answered before the question could be asked.

"Slept funny, not used to the ground."

Hardcastle cast a sharp look back into the tent. "The _ground_? Those are air mattresses."

"Aw, come on," Mark groused good-naturedly. "If I can't do gloom and doom, then you shouldn't be able to give me any lectures that start out with how much thougher things used to be." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the water. "Whaddaya think?"

Hardcastle followed his gesture and gave the River Clementine a hard study.

"Musta rained pretty good," he finally said. "You'll need your waders today," he added with a smile.

"No," Mark said impatiently. "Downstream, the ford."

"Oh," Hardcastle shrugged, then waggled a hand, "dunno. Might be a little tetchy this morning, but I think it's crested, and we don't have to go back till tomorrow evening, so we're okay."

"Unless it rains some more this weekend." Mark looked up at the sky dubiously.

"When I was a kid, we were glad to have the ground to sleep on; sometimes we didn't even have that. And there were rocks, lots of 'em, and they were sharper, too."

Mark brought his gaze back down sharply and squinted at this litany, trying his darndest not to laugh.

00000

He had, quite remarkably, gotten a decent night's sleep and an early start. Some odd quote about fortune favoring the brave had flitted through his memory over breakfast at dawn. He had a notion that the trip would be done and over with sometime in the early afternoon, and he'd make some strategic appearances in his usual haunts later on that day.

But now he was parked, impatiently, at the edge of the creek. It had overflowed its banks and made a muddy mess of everything. The swirl showed some signs of abating, but his time table was being shot to hell. He fumed and finally—watching his landmarks and convincing himself that the level had dropped yet another precious inch—he gunned it.

For one unholy moment he thought he had miscalculated, and to be stuck here would be an irreversible disaster. Then the front wheels gripped again and he felt the whole thing lurch forward, and rock unsteadily back up the far side. He heaved a deep breath and felt himself start to smile.

He sat for a moment on the bank, savoring his success. Then he turned the wheels to the left, and headed north.

00000

The good thing about having a reputation for being constitutionally lazy, McCormick concluded, was that nobody looked at you cross-eyed if you decided to spend the morning sitting on a log watching somebody else fish.

He hadn't risen to the bait when Hardcastle had offered him a wager as to who would haul in the most fish, nor had he offered any explanation. He'd snuck a peek at the troublesome foot while Hardcase had been occupied with a brown trout. His heel was red, maybe a little swollen, nothing spectacular. He'd frowned at it and pulled his sock back up quickly, edging his foot gingerly back into the shoe and then elevating it casually on the log.

If it wasn't any better by the evening, he'd consider a confession and requesting an early return home. No use discussing it now; the water would still probably be too high to permit a crossing and the judge was starting to pull in some big ones.

He cast a glance downstream just then, or he wouldn't have noticed the vehicle that had rounded the bend, edging along carefully as far up under the cliff-side as possible. He shaded his eyes: a truck, one man. He'd pulled to a stop as soon as he'd come in sight of their camp, halting there a moment. He couldn't make out the man's face clearly at this distance, but the general effect was not happy.

"Hey," Mark hollered, "Judge."

Hardcastle turned and looked over his shoulder, then turned full around, wading back up the short distance he'd ventured into the fast-moving water. He took his creel off and set his rod down alongside it.

The man in the truck seemed to be studying them. Mark found himself tensing, just a little, then batted his first instincts down. _Worst case scenarios. _He shook his head and bit his tongue. Hardcastle was already striding toward the truck, waders and all, offering a friendly greeting. _One of the family, most likely._

00000

Wilmont smiled. It might have been more like gritting his teeth, but he'd had a lot of practice converting that into a smile, so it probably came across as that.

He hadn't recognized the old geezer at first. Hell, he hadn't _seen_ him before he'd cleared the bend, otherwise he might have made an attempt to sneak away, back down the creek before he himself was seen.

No such luck. Here was Hardcastle coming over to give him a handshake and a slap on the shoulder. And Etheridge was working hard on a plausible answer to the question he knew would be asked first.

"Whatcha doing up here, Wil? Planning on doing a little fishing? I talked to your Aunt Patsy a couple a days ago and she didn't mention it."

He shook his head, still smiling. It was a temptation to use that for an excuse, but he didn't have any gear along.

"You've met Mark—Mark McCormick—my partner at the law clinic, haven't you?"

Wilmont gave a nod in the direction of the younger man, still sitting on the log. He got a casual wave back. That'd be the ex-con old Hardcase had put through law school—the talk of the last five years of family get-togethers and fuel for plenty of speculation. Etheridge thought maybe he'd met him once, at some sort of a political function. He gave another non-specific nod.

"So, you have any trouble getting across the ford?"

He dragged his eyes back to Hardcastle. "Ah," he thought about that one quickly. "No, not in particular." He swallowed once. "Just a little high." He got the impression Hardcase was studying his truck. He felt a compulsion to keep talking, to try and distract the man. "I come up here sometimes." _Dammit, no, that's a bad idea._ _Too late to fix it._ "To think," he finished lamely.

"Yeah," Hardcastle took a deep breath and let it out, "it's a beautiful place . . . good fishing, too. Hey," he slapped his hands together, "we got plenty of fish. How 'bout you join us for lunch?"

Etheridge blinked once. There wasn't much to say to this. He couldn't very well turn around and head right out. The guy on the log was giving him an odd look. Wilmont forced another smile. "Heck, why not? You sure I won't be a bother?"

"No bother at all, like I said; been biting like you wouldn't believe. I was gonna have to quit pretty soon, running out of room in the cooler." The judge had turned back toward the campsite. The other man had gotten up off the log, to make room for him, so he could doff his waders.

Wilmont climbed out of the truck slowly, still eyeing the situation, but smiling like a dutiful guest.

"So, you come up here a lot?" Hardcastle asked him.

Etheridge kept his face composed. "Ah . . . no, not what you'd call a _lot_. Just once in a while." He was pretty sure he'd caught the ex-con giving Hardcase a look. Didn't seem as though the judge had noticed, though.

"You came up this morning?" Etheridge smoothly redirected the conversation.

"Nah, yesterday," Hardcastle replied, looking back at him with what appeared to be mild speculation. "Not sure I would have tried it today, the water being up and all."

Wilmont avoided a flinch. The con was definitely looking at him funny. They'd been up here since yesterday—he must've just missed them going out. His luck wasn't totally shot, it seemed. _Still, they'd been here a whole day . . ._

As if in answer to his unasked question, Hardcastle's ex-con butted in, "Nice view." He jerked his chin up and a little to the left, as if to indicate cliffs above the shack.

Etheridge gave him a long, hard look. He had a sudden feeling that he was being toyed with, taunted even. Despite that, he kept his composure. If Hardcase was still casting flies in the Clementine, then the news hadn't gotten to him. What the hell it meant, Wilmont wasn't sure, but he knew it couldn't be good for him.

"You went up there?" he asked the younger man, careful to keep it merely quizzical.

"Yeah, up past the shack, up to the cliff. He does most of the fishing." The man nodded to the judge casually.

"You liked the view, huh?" Wilmont asked dryly. Despite the apparent danger, he felt a little more in control now. He thought he had this thing figured out.

"Well, it's a long way down," the con smiled, "but it was interesting."

Wilmont stared at him. The guy was cool, very good. He'd obviously pulled the wool over Hardcase's eyes for a long time, and now he was taking up blackmail. Etheridge felt a light shiver go down his spine. To be at someone's mercy—at the mercy of a criminal—it was unacceptable.

_Accept . . . for now._ He kept the all-purpose smile in place. The younger man was working on the fire, turning his back to him for now. _Did he find the notebook, or just the body? How much does he know for sure?_

Hardcastle took up the conversation. He was saying something about the mine. Etheridge shook himself from his thoughts and tried to focus.

"So, you come up here to think, huh?" The old guy grinned.

"Long week," Wilmont said flatly.

"I was just asking if you remembered when the Clementine closed."

"Ah . . .no, that'd be before my time—"

"March, '29," McCormick said, without looking up as he laid out the fillets on the grill. "At least that's what the calendar up in the shack says."

Wilmont saw that he was still facing away from him, as though he wanted to avoid eye contact. He obviously didn't want to give the game away in front of Hardcase. That was understandable. The confrontation would come later, no doubt—in town, most likely. But by then it would be too late. This man was clearly a sharp customer; he would take steps to protect himself, to protect the information he had.

Etheridge realized he had only a narrow window of opportunity. If he was to escape this man's plot—evade his clutches—he'd have to strike first, and very soon.

00000

Hardcastle served. It was simple fare, but fresh caught and cooked trout trumped haute cuisine any day in his opinion. Too bad the atmosphere didn't complement the food. He'd noticed an increasing strain on Wilmont's part. It took him a while to calculate the trajectory of his obvious ill-feeling, but he'd finally figured it was aimed in McCormick's direction.

He puzzled over that, while trying to keep the conversation going in neutral, sociable directions. He didn't try all that hard at the second part—if Etheridge wanted to be a horse's ass about McCormick, then that was his problem. Nobody on the Hardcastle side of the family had a problem with him. Nancy's cousins barely counted as kin.

That was probably the problem, he concluded, as he cut into his second serving of trout. The Etheridges only knew about Mark from a distance. None of them had really _met_ the kid. It usually took McCormick about twenty minutes to break down someone else's nervous reserve, once he got to talking.

It wasn't working this time. Barely that far into the meal and Wilmont was showing signs of being restive, as though he had somewhere else to be. He thanked them for the hospitality, and made vague promises to get together again sometime, all meaningless social amenities which seemed to be pasted over an increasingly anxious demeanor.

Hardcastle saw him off to the truck. He noticed Mark stayed sitting down—apparently Etheridge had managed to find even the limits of McCormick's patience. One final, perfunctory wave good-bye and the man was gone, back down the river bank and out of sight around the bend. Hardcastle let out a breath and turned back toward camp.

Mark took one last bite of food, chewed thoughtfully, and then finally said, "So what the hell was that all about?"

The judge stared at him a moment. He supposed it was possible that after ten years of it, the kid didn't even notice when he was being snubbed. He exhaled again. This might not be such a good time to point it out, either. He shrugged once, as though he hadn't a clue.

"I mean," Mark looked down at his empty plate with a frown, "the guy comes all the way up here, fords a river up past his floorboards—you saw the mud-line on that thing, didn't you?—then turns around and goes back the way he came. Come on, Judge, whaddaya think he was up to?"

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder for one long moment and then turned back. He was frowning now, too. This was an _Etheridge_. They weren't up to _anything_. Old money. Old connections. They already had power and riches; honor and glory was all there was left to shoot for. He opened his mouth to state the facts—

"Maybe he was meeting someone here," Mark continued on, looking up toward the shack and the cliffs behind it. "Maybe the other guy had the sense not to try and cross that stream. Or maybe he came to get something."

"Like what?" Hardcastle asked, drawn into the discussion almost against his will.

"I dunno, something important, and he must have needed it in a hurry if he'd come up here when the water's this high, right?"

"I suppose."

"And he wasn't too happy to see _us_ here, was he?" Mark pointed out. Hardcastle thought that was right, except maybe for the 'us' part. "And," Mark concluded, "whatever he came for, he left without it."

"_May_be," the judge admitted.

"I suppose we could take a look around, see if there's anything obvious," Mark suggested.

"Now, come on," Hardcastle finally protested, "we don't even know if what you're saying is true, and, even if it was, we don't have the foggiest notion what this thing is, or where it might be. Besides, you already climbed up to the shack, and walked around up there—you didn't see anything hinky up there, did you?"

McCormick shook his head 'no'. He looked slightly disappointed to be admitting it..

"Well, there you go, then. You and your worst case scenarios—the guy just came up here to clear his head, do some thinking, and he stumbles on us, sitting here on his favorite thinking log, and he's kinda bent out of shape, that's all. Long drive for nothing."

"I'll say—"

"And you're just tired of fishing, and looking for something else to do."

"Well," Mark shrugged, "there's maybe that." The younger man propped his right leg back up on the log. "Anyway, at least the guy wasn't smiling so much this time, but I'm still not voting for him."

Hardcastle heaved a small, and he hoped unnoticeable, sigh of relief. If that was how McCormick had seen the whole thing, all's the better.

00000

Etheridge pulled off into a widened spot, a half mile or so down the bank of the creek. He sat for a moment, arm draped over the top of the steering wheel, and his forehead down on that, wondering how in the hell this had all gone so wrong.

There was no where to go but forward with this, he'd already concluded. To turn back now would be almost certain disaster. A guy like that ex-con lawyer would bleed him dry and then turn him in anyway. It was inevitable.

He lifted his head after a moment more. No time for self-indulgence—it wasn't his way. His jaw was set in grim resolve. Step one would be to get the truck hidden, as far off the path as possible, but accessible for a getaway. Then he'd go back toward the mine, higher up, off the creek, and out of sight of those two—try to figure out how much the guy knew. Had he only found the body? If he'd over-looked the car and, God willing, the notebook, the problem might be a lot simpler. Either way, Hardcastle's ex-con had to have a little accident.

That wouldn't be murder. It'd be self-defense.

00000

The water was subsiding, nearly imperceptibly. Hardcastle had gone back to fishing. Mark watched the sun duck back into some new cloud cover and checked his watch. It was pushing three p.m., and if he was going to make a request for a departure that day, this was about as late as he could do it; still leaving them time to pack up and make it back to the main road before dark.

He watched the older man place another cast and chortle loudly at the almost immediate tug. They were still biting, almost better than they had this morning. The quick-running stream was a challenge and the judge was in his element.

Mark wiggled the toes of his right foot, winced, and decided there really hadn't been any increase in the discomfort since he'd had a chance to elevate it and slip his shoe off. With a little luck, it'd be better in the morning.

If he could get all the way back home without mentioning it, and get it patched up on Monday--swearing Charlie Friedman to secrecy—he just might avoid the whole discussion with Hardcastle, one that would undoubtedly touch on such subjects as lying, stubbornness, and stupidity, and wouldn't do him any more good than the last dozen or so they'd had.

_Yeah,_ he wriggled his toes again and suppressed the wince entirely, _it feels better._

00000

Etheridge backtracked up into the hills, coming down near the spot where he'd hidden Evelyn's car. He donned his driving gloves again, and now made a quick and quiet search of the interior—no notebook. Nothing even jotted on a scrap of paper and stuffed into the door pocket. He straightened up and sighed.

Might still be on the body, he supposed. That guy might not have searched her, though that was almost too much to hope for, the way his luck had been running lately. He squinted up at the cliff, rising, from his current perspective, above a range of bush-dotted hills. He surveyed the surroundings cautiously. Dusk was only an hour or so away. He didn't have much time.

He clambered up, always keeping one eye toward the west, trying to stay well below any sight-lines with the creek. He wouldn't risk the high ground, but, instead, worked his way up along the muddy wash, aiming for the bottom of the cliff. He finally reached, and crested, the last small rise before the crevasse, and peered down.

He frowned, looked up again to check his alignment with the cliff, then moved a dozen feet to his left and checked that area as well.

Nothing. Nobody.

He felt the ground tilt slightly and dropped back down, almost to his haunches, to steady himself while he tried to get a grip on the facts.

_She was dead_. That was fact number one, and he was sure of it.

_He moved her_.

He looked over his shoulder, suddenly flushed with appalled rage. The gall of the man, and then sitting down there, with that smug smile, talking about the view. The _indecency_ of it.

_He must have the notebook, too. _He wouldn't risk leaving it lying around the tent, not where Hardcastle might find it. He'd have it on him, at least for now. That would make things easier. Etheridge half-smiled to himself. The man had sealed his own fate with his greed. He'd left him no choice in the matter.

He stood up slowly, more composed, brushing his hands off on his pants, already too mud-splattered to matter.

00000

Mark had decided that three meals of trout in a row were enough. He'd taken the emergency package of hotdogs out of the cooler and found himself a stick to peel. Not that he was all that hungry anyway, but he thought he'd make a point about maybe leaving a few fish for next time.

Hardcastle had done his own fish cleaning, then frowned at McCormick's obvious revolt.

"Fresh fish and you pick _that_?"

"I thought I'd better get rid of the dogs so you'd have more room in the cooler for the fish," Mark said in a way that managed to sound aggravatingly cooperative.

"Hmph. No taste." Hardcastle sat down on his end of the log. The hotdog, pierced longitudinally, was split and dripping juice onto the fire. The bun waited on the plate, already laced with ketchup and mustard, and part of an onion, finely diced.

The judge sniffed deeply, then frowned again, down at the plate of raw fish that he'd been about to lay out on the grill.

Mark gave him a sideward glance and smiled. "Okay, you can have this one. You've been working harder than me, anyway. I'll put those fillets on ice and get out a couple more dogs." He passed the plate and the stick over, then got to his feet.

He thought he'd been cautious, but the sudden pain took him by surprise and he half-lurched, catching himself with one hand back down on the log. The judge looked up, his frown deepening.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Mark muttered, "foot went to sleep, that's all."

That answered for the limp, at least for now. He could put no weight at all on his heel, and even the front of his foot was tender—swollen, too, if the throbbing was any indicator. It occurred to him that long-term secrecy about this little problem was rapidly becoming more unlikely, but it was near-dark now and there wasn't a darn thing Hardcastle could do about it until tomorrow, besides give the lecture, which Mark was in no mood to hear.

He'd lost his appetite completely; even the smell of the hotdog had suddenly turned on him. He sat back down, feeling sweaty and a little nauseous.

Hardcastle was still frowning at him.

"Too much fish," Mark said.

"They were _fine_." Hardcastle looked down at the uncooked ones lying on the plate next to the log.

"Okay, _yeah_," Mark admitted, a little guiltily. "Just an awful lot of them."

"Well . . ."

"Or maybe it was standing in the water too long yesterday," Mark offered that one without much conviction, but at least it was moving a little closer to the truth.

Hardcastle set the hotdog stick down, propped against the grill, and reached over. "Hold still, will ya?" he grumbled as McCormick leaned back. The back of the judge's hand felt cool against his forehead and Mark figured that was probably a bad sign.

"I think you got a fever. Either that or my hands are cold."

"Well, they've got fish juice on 'em, anyway," McCormick grumbled, batting him away. "I'm okay."

"Kathy's gonna kill me," Hardcastle muttered. "I promised her I'd bring ya home in one piece."

"I _am_ in one piece," Mark insisted. "And how the heck are you supposed to be responsible for me getting sick?" He's carefully avoided any mention of the exact nature of the illness in this last statement. No need for Hardcastle to know just whose fault this was.

The judge let out a long sigh. "I may not be responsible for _that_, but it's my fault that you're sick here, way out in the middle of nowhere." He shook his head, then jerked his chin in the direction of the tent. "Go lie down; get some sleep. I'll clean up. We'll head back first thing in the morning."

Mark nodded as he got up again slowly, this time avoiding pressure on anything but the toes on the right. A raindrop, fat and cold, hit the back of his neck as he was rising. It actually felt good. Hardcastle had obviously encountered one as well. The older man held a palm face up, took another couple of hits, and grimaced.

"'God willing and the creek don't rise,'" he intoned dryly.

"Hah," Mark said, glad to drop to his knees and crawl in through the tent flap. "You with the gloom and doom."

00000

Hardcastle had been awake for a little while in the pitch black, listening to the slashing rain against the nylon tent, and the torrent nearby. It seemed to him that the timbre of the water flow had changed—louder, closer. He unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up. He heard Mark mutter from the darkness nearby, but it was nothing intelligible.

He undid the flap from the bottom, just far enough up that he could see out—still too dark, but an impression of surface and motion, both alarmingly close. He fumbled back behind him for a flashlight, then aimed that outside before turning it on.

The river was less than six feet outside their door, having risen perhaps fifteen. He caught a glimpse of a snag, carried by a quick pace He followed it with the flashlight as it hung up briefly against the side of the truck, now six feet into the water and immersed well above the floorboards.

He turned back and jostled the kid's foot. He was rewarded with a sudden jerk of motion and a half-shout.

"We got a problem, kiddo," Hardcastle informed the man, who was sitting up, blinking, almost shaking. "Water's up. Any higher and we'll have to swim for it." He cast one more quick glance outward. It was still rising.

"Come _on_," he said, a little more urgently, reaching for his own sleeping bag, rolling it up into a hasty, untidy, but manageable heap. Mark crawled out of his more slowly, fumbling for his jacket and shoes. Hardcastle snatched that bag up too, giving it two quick folds and thrusting it into the younger man's arms. "Higher ground, _now_. I don't think we have time to move the tent."

He pulled his boots on, untied, and lifted the flap. Mark was moving clumsily behind him. He never woke up very efficiently.

"The shack," Hardcastle shouted over the noise of the torrent behind them, gesturing up the slope with the flashlight. He thought he saw Mark nod, but now both of them were head-down, climbing slowly. The kid stumbled, dropping his bedding, then reaching to gather it up again, still on his knees.

At this rate they'd both be soaked before they made it to shelter. Hardcastle stuffed the flashlight in his pocket, picked up the fallen sleeping bag and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he hooked the younger man under the arm with his free hand and tugged him back to his feet. "Come on," he shouted encouragingly.

McCormick nodded again. Forward progress was made. They finally reached the sagging porch of the ancient structure. Hardcastle flicked the flashlight on again. Mark dropped back to the ground almost as soon as they were inside, sitting there in the eerily-cast shadows, looking sodden and exhausted.

"How high?"

"High enough."

The younger man frowned and then said, "The truck?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "In the water. Even if it was drivable, there's no way to get down to the ford, let alone across it." Then he brightened for a moment. "Wilmont. Hope he has the good sense to let someone know we're up here."

Mark was still frowning.

"Well," the judge added with a shrug, "even if he doesn't, we're due back tomorrow night. Much later than Monday and someone will come looking for us."

"Food's down in the truck," Mark reminded him.

"We can get to it once the rain lets up a little and the water drops a foot or two."

Mark nodded, looking around in bemused misery.

"Take your jacket off." Hardcastle laid out the drier of the two sleeping bags. Mark followed directions, albeit slowly. The judge took it from him and spread it out on the table to dry. "Now your shoes. He pointed back down. "Socks, too, they're wet."

There was more fumbling, and an audible grunt when he got to the right sock. Hardcastle picked up the flashlight and shined it on the problem, suspiciously.

Even in the dim light the heel was obviously swollen and red. Mark stared down at it silently.

Hardcastle uttered a fervent '_damn_.' Then he said, "When?" trying to keep it as non-accusatory as possible.

Mark looked a little detached from the whole thing, like maybe he needed to lie down again pretty soon. Hardcastle caught his arm and eased him back onto the sleeping bag. There he seemed to still be considering the question.

"Friday," he finally replied quietly. "Some kinda thorn, I think."

"You got it out?" Hardcastle avoided the other, obvious question.

"Most of it . . . I think."

The judge shook his head.

"It would have been whining," Mark pointed out, eyes closed. "You said 'no whining'."

"I did not," the judge protested indignantly.

"Well, you said something like that," McCormick muttered. "'I stepped on a thorn, let's go home.' Yeah, _right_."

Hardcastle lowered himself down. "Turn on your side. Lemme get a better look."

Mark eased over onto his left.

"You got yourself an abscess here, looks like."

Hardcastle poked lightly. Mark yelped.

"Oughta lance it. Still got my pocket knife."

"The one you were cutting the hooks out of the fish with?" McCormick asked dubiously.

"Gotta a lighter, too; I can heat up the blade some."

"You watch too many John Wayne movies." There was a pause and then, "All right, can't hurt any worse. Just do it."

00000

He was wrong about that. It hurt like the devil. But by the time Hardcastle was finished, and had folded a damp handkerchief over it, tied on with a strip of flannel shirt tail, the blazing pain had diminished slightly.

Mark curled up on his side, counting his pulse by throbs and figuring he wasn't due to win any wagers on the rate. He heard Hardcastle back on his feet, moving around in the shadows, but wasn't sure what he was doing until he heard a crackling sound—the calendar being taken down from the wall and a loose slat pulled free and broken into pieces.

He'd noticed a few stray coals in the bin by the fire-pot the other day. Hardcastle'd probably seen them, too. A few moments more and there was a small fire going, enough to take the damp chill off the room and shed a little flickering light through the grate.

And then, because there wasn't a whole lot else to be done about things (and whatever there was that _could_ be done, Hardcastle would do), he fell asleep.

00000

And he awoke, stiff and a little cold and desperately missing the air mattress. He saw the rough outline of the judge. He was only an arm's reach away, wrapped up in the other sleeping bag and apparently oblivious to discomfort.

It felt as though the fire had gone out. What light there was came from the window, and was the darkest of pre-dawn grays. On a more positive note, he no longer heard any rain, though he thought he could still make out some sounds from the water rushing by below them.

He checked his watch. It was 4:47. There was no way he was going to make it till full light. At any rate, amidst the other aches and pains, the heel seemed to have subsided a little. He got up on his elbow, and wriggled free of the bag, reaching up for his jacket and skipping the still-wet socks in favor of more room in the shoe for foot and bandage. He bit back a hiss as he worked the right one on. All estimates that things were better had been premature.

He finally made it outside. The flashlight was still necessary, but the rain had indeed let up. He couldn't make out the river below, but he could definitely hear it—a tumult striking the normally dry-standing walls of rock further down the valley. He wondered how many days it would take to subside, and had the truck been swept downstream as well?

No problem. Hardcastle was right. The Etheridges knew they were up here, and Wilmont, at least, knew what the conditions had been before this last storm had swept through.

And, of all the ironic things, he realized he was thirsty. He shone the flashlight around him, picking out a likely path toward some flatter rocks with pitted depressions on the top. He put the light down and scooped out a few handfuls of water, then wandered a few steps further to take care of business.

All that done, he turned off the light for a moment, and tried to estimate how long it would be before daylight, whether it was worth it to try and go back to sleep. And that was when it caught his eye, a flicker from somewhere above him, some other unnatural source of light. He'd caught it from the corner of his vision, and when he lifted his head to look fully in that direction, it was gone.

A lantern, he thought. Either that or he was imagining things. He touched his own forehead—a little warm, but not all _that_ hot. He didn't feel like he was imagining things. The light had come from the cliff that jutted out in front of the mine shaft opening, the place he'd climbed up to on Friday.

He frowned. He thought about it. A mystery. He didn't like mysteries very much, but he thought this one might be important. He looked back down at the cabin. If he _was_ imagining things, he preferred to keep that fact to himself. He turned the flashlight back on and limped over to the path, climbing it slowly.

There was no one, and no source of light, on the top of the ledge. The view was better, though, and he could see what had formerly been a creek, now visible in the gray. Worse yet, he saw the truck, inundated to its sills and knocked sideways, with a good chance that it would be carried further with the next snag that struck it.

He sighed, looking down. Mostly what he was standing on was rock; there were a few, small mud-filled depressions. His own lightly placed, right shoeprint, the forepart only, rested in one of them. In another was the edge of an unfamiliar print. He looked up and around quickly. There was no other route off of this ledge—he knew that from the visit the other day.

The entrance to the mine had been boarded up sixty years before. Time and the curiosity of trespassers had done their damage, and it only required a slight stoop to clear the obstruction. He weighed the prospect of calling out, but if whoever it was had wanted to make himself known, he could have done so easily. _Okay, so you're not imagining things; time to go roust out the Lone Ranger._

_Or just take a peek first._

He pointed the flashlight through the opening, playing it over the timber re-enforced walls. It looked sturdy enough. The tunnel led straight back, beyond the capabilities of the light. There was an off-shoot to the left not far inside the opening. He dropped the beam down to floor level. Then he saw it, a shape on the floor, maybe twenty feet back in the main tunnel. It might have been a bundle of rags, except for the one very human foot, unshod, sticking out.

He blinked. He stepped through the opening. He walked forward, half expecting it to resolve itself into something less worrisome as he approached it. All it did was become ever more evidently a woman.

It took the last few feet, really the moment where he reached out and touched her cheek, before he was absolutely sure she was gone. Up until then she might have been asleep on the very hard ground, though now, on closer inspection, her face was waxen white and her eyes were sunken with the look of several days dead.

He sat back on his haunches, ignoring the pain. Another touch revealed the damage from a blow to the side of her head. He pulled back hastily from the coarsely matted hair and wiped his hand on the edge of the woman's shirt self-consciously.

He played the flashlight down the tunnel. It obviously branched a short ways ahead. He suddenly had absolutely no desire to find out who was down there. He had another sharp and immediate opinion—that Wilmont knew something about this, though it seemed certain that the man had arrived _after_ this had happened.

He supposed he ought to search her, try to find some ID, but he couldn't bring himself to do it right then. He got to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall, still looking down at her. Then he stumbled back up the tunnel, casting a quick, nervous look behind him as he went. He didn't feel the blow from his right that struck him down, just as he made it to the entrance.

00000

Too much light, and someone was jostling him.

He opened his eyes and just as quickly shut them. He'd gotten a glimpse of Hardcastle, staring down at him worriedly. His shoulder got jostled again.

"Cut it out, will ya?" he muttered.

"Then stay with me, okay?" the judge griped anxiously. "Ya went and whacked your head. What the hell were you doing up here, anyway?"

Mark squinted his eyes open again, verifying that he was, indeed, up on the ledge above the cabin, and trying to figure out the answer to Hardcastle's question. It came to him in a flash of recollection and he tried to sit up.

"A woman," he said, looking back over his shoulder at the mine entrance just behind them. "A body."

The judge had him by the shoulders. It was a good thing, too; he'd taken that last part a little fast and things weren't too stable.

"What body?" Hardcastle asked. It wasn't doubt, not exactly, more like confusion.

"_Hers_ . . . in there." Mark pointed mine-wards. "She got hit in the head, too." He realized how strange it sounded. He started to turn, to get to his feet. He'd just have to show him, that was all.

Hardcastle tried to block him for a moment, then seemed to realize that wasn't doing much good and switched to helping him up. "Watch your head this time," he groused.

Mark waved that off. "I think somebody was in there. They hit me."

"I thought you said there was a body."

"That too. You got a flashlight?"

"Yours. You dropped it when you fell." Hardcastle pressed the switch and the beam cut into the darkness. "So where is it?"

Mark took it from him impatiently and played it down and back, then forward again. Then back. He limped in a few more feet. Nothing.

"She was here." He pointed. He'd reached the spot. He knew it. It was a stone surface; there were no traces that anyone had been there, not even his own footprints. Hardcastle was standing behind him, one hand on his shoulder.

"Well," the judge's tone was quiet, very considering, "she's not here _now_."

00000

Hardcastle had finally convinced him that a further search was ill-advised. He got him back down the steep path to the cabin. How the heck he'd managed it up there, in the dark, was anybody's guess. The fever was back; he felt the kid shaking with it, and not putting much weight on his right foot, either.

The only good news was that the water level was dropping. The truck was only a few feet out from the shore, though it had obviously been much deeper at some point during the night; the sides were a slick of mud. With luck, though, he could get into it and fetch some supplies in a little while. Moving it—or even starting it, for that matter—seemed unlikely.

The tent, rather ominously, was no more.

_If we hadn't gotten out of there when we did . . ._

"She was there, _really_." Mark said it in a tone that sounded as though he half-needed to convince himself.

Hardcastle gave this a nod as he maneuvered him into the cabin and back down onto the floor. The ramifications of a freshly-dead body in the mine didn't bear thinking about right now—though he supposed he ought to spare it some thought anyway.

"You believe me, don't you?" Mark was frowning up at him.

He didn't think it would take too much to talk the younger man out of it at this point. He looked pretty uncertain. Of course, if he really had seen a body—if somebody _had_ moved it—

"Tell me what she looked like," he said non-committally.

Mark dragged his eyes down to floor-level, as though he was trying to focus on something there. "A woman, maybe twenty-five . . . not more than thirty." He glanced up sharply. "She was _dead_. Dried blood on the right side of her head." He looked down at his own hand, as though there might be traces from where he'd touched her. Hardcastle saw nothing, a little mud, that was all. "I don't know what color her eyes were—they were closed. Her hair was dark, maybe shoulder length."

It sounded like a fairly unremarkable description, but as though he really was recalling it from memory.

"Her clothes," the judge asked. "What was she wearing?"

Mark frowned again. "A light-colored shirt, untucked. Pants . . . there must've been. I didn't get a good look at them. There was some cloth—a blanket, something solid-colored, dark—that she was wrapped in. Loosely, though. That's why I didn't realize it was a person right away, when I saw her from the entrance. But there was a foot sticking out, no shoe. That's what I saw first."

There wasn't the slightest element of fantasy about it. Hardcastle had questioned thousands of eye-witnesses: as a cop, a lawyer, and a judge. He knew the real deal when he heard it.

"Wasn't killed there, most likely somewhere else. Not a drop of blood." The judge said it slowly. He realized that Mark was looking at him with an expression of relieved gratitude. He brushed that away with a wave of his hand. "You weren't _that_ out of it last night, for Pete's sake. I should think you'd still know a dead body if you tripped over one."

Mark nodded hesitantly.

"The question is," Hardcastle continued on pensively, "where was she killed, and when?"

"And who did it," Mark added, "and where'd they move her now?" He looked nervously toward the window. "And where's your gun?"

"Down in the truck, in the glove compartment." Hardcastle said practically. "Another foot or so, I can get it. And whoever this is, he seems to be mostly whacking people on the head so far." The judge's face went suddenly very sober. "Though if he killed her, then why the hell didn't he finish you off, too?"

00000

He'd spent the night huddled in the cab of his truck, hearing the force of the water spewing down the usually dry wash that he had maneuvered up into. From time-to-time he felt the vehicle shudder as it slipped downward by very short jolts.

When the rain finally stopped, he opened the door tentatively. He realized he was parked in the midst of a freshet of impressive proportions, marooned, at least for the time being. But that eventually subsided, too, around dawn. And finally, like Noah from the ark, he was able to emerge and get on with things.

He worked his way back down to the creek, hearing it long before it was in view. There was something there, bright orange and tangled in a snag—a familiar tent. Wilmont's heart lifted briefly, until he realized it was too flattened to contain anything as large as human remains. A dilemma, he realized—either the bodies were further down-stream, or, possibly, there weren't any bodies yet, and he'd have to take more active measures, though surely the circumstances were looking ever more favorable for accidental death.

He went back up, to approach the remains of the camp from the higher path. He risked creeping over to a vantage point that took in the clearing below—still mostly under water and swept clear of all evidence of habitation, except for the truck.

The vehicle was immersed to its wheel wells, and muddier still up top. If the two men had sought refuge in that, they wouldn't have made it through the night. Wilmont half-knelt, surveying the surroundings. It was full daylight now and he saw no one afoot. There were, however, the faintest tendrils of smoke rising above the bushes from the direction of the shack.

Someone had obviously survived.

For the umpteenth time since yesterday, Etheridge wished he had brought a gun; not that he was a violent person, but he thought a gun might even the odds a bit, give him a sense of reassurance. He sighed his regret. He'd just have to be careful. The guy had looked damned dangerous.

00000

Hardcastle had found more fuel—a couple more slats for kindling, the chair, broken up and fed in a piece at a time. Mark stopped shaking eventually, but only after the fever seemed to have topped off. He thought he'd lost track of time for a little bit; maybe he'd dozed off. Obviously the judge had gone and come back. He was wiping down the lid of the cooler with a wet rag.

"Water's down some," he said over his shoulder, once McCormick started to stir. "The truck's in about a foot of mud, though. Didn't try to start it." He ducked out from under the strap of a canteen and handed it over.

"No beer?" Mark asked mournfully.

"Not for you. Drink that."

He'd already fumbled the cap off and taken a deep swig. The judge was looking at him pensively. He smiled back with as much insouciance as he could muster.

"You're not pulling that one on me," Hardcastle said gruffly. "You were talking about getting a continuance on the Miller case an hour ago."

Mark's smile dissipated. The Miller case had ended two weeks ago. "Well," he said quietly, "I'm okay now."

"Let's see the foot."

"Not if you're going to go jabbing a knife in it again. I think you only need to do that once."

"You oughta let me decided that," Hardcastle said firmly. "I'm the one who watches the John Wayne movies, remember?"

"Yeah, well," Mark shrugged, setting the canteen side and pulling his foot free of the bag, "you didn't even give me a bullet to bite on that last time."

"Got one of those, now," Hardcastle gestured with his chin toward the table.

Mark could see part of the holster straps hanging down. He felt a slight twinge of relief, not that he was hoping they'd need it, but he somehow felt more comfortable knowing it was there.

He let Hardcastle undo the strip of flannel and only took in a sharp breath when he pulled the handkerchief away. Something had ripped loose, and he felt a new trickle down the bottom of his foot. When he managed a look down he saw that the hot, red skin, extended well up his ankle, disappearing under the edge of his pants.

"Okay, still draining, guess it doesn't need anymore prodding," Hardcastle admitted. In lieu of further handkerchiefs, he tore some more strips off his shirt and fashioned a new dressing. He sat back, once it was done up, and surveyed the younger man.

Mark looked right back at him and finally said, "You think the water'll be down enough to cross that ford by tomorrow?"

"Might be," Hardcastle admitted. "Most likely."

"And it's, what? Past there, I mean. Maybe eight miles back to the nearest place? There was a gas station, right?"

"'Yeah, 'bout that, but I don't think we're gonna get the truck out. That mud sucks like quicksand."

"Walking it then, you think you could do that?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Doesn't matter if I can—you _can't_. Not on that foot."

"Okay, so, we just sit here and wait? Whoever did that girl in walks across that ford and is never seen again. We gonna do it that way?"

Hardcastle frowned. "The alternative is me walking out while you sit here. And maybe that guy hangs around and tries to finish you off."

"He's already had a chance to do that. What makes you think he'll try again?"

The judge thought about that for a moment. He finally said, "Okay, I'll leave you the gun. If I get started at dawn, I can have help back here before dark."

"Wait a sec, Kemosabe. I thought we agreed the guy isn't after me; he took a pass on that. He'll be headed for the ford. _You're_ the one who's gonna be in his way."

Hardcastle's frown deepened, as though he was trying to think of a logical protest. The problem was, it made too much sense.

"All right," he grudged, "_I'll _take the gun. But if I bust this guy somewhere along the way, it might slow me down some."

"S'okay," Mark assured him with a weary smile. "I got plenty of fish and the wedding isn't until Saturday."

00000

He watched from his vantage point. He'd seen Hardcastle go out, but no further than the truck. He was beginning to think the other man was already dead. Then, as the late afternoon shadows began to creep over the western side of the valley, he saw the two of them step out of the shack, the younger one leaning heavily on the older, obviously having some trouble walking.

He'd been injured. That explained a lot. Wilmont found his hopes rising again. The truck was clearly mired beyond salvaging. The only way out would be on foot, and that wouldn't be do-able until daylight, tomorrow. Then the judge would leave the other man behind—he was clearly not up to the effort.

After that it would be a simple matter to arrange things—a blow to the head, a quick search for the notebook. If he had it on him, well and good. If he didn't, then chances were it was securely enough hidden not to be a problem. After that, just drop the body over the nearest cliff—somewhere he would be quickly found when the judge returned with help.

There was a good chance the would-be rescuers wouldn't even stick around long enough to find Evelyn, wherever he'd hidden her. Supposing they did eventually, in a few months or a year, all anyone would remember was that this was the spot where that ex-con had died. And who would be the likely suspect then?

Wilmont smiled to himself. He could retreat to his truck for now. He was hungry, and stiff with worry and fatigue. It had been a rough weekend, but he was made of stern stuff; he was an Etheridge. He'd see this through.

00000

"And if you have to get up again," Hardcastle admonished, passing him the refilled canteen, "you wake me. You don't go wandering out there by yourself in the dark, okay?"

Mark nodded, not wanting to point out that he didn't think he be up to it again even _with_ a shoulder to lean on. It was for that reason that he'd been approaching the canteen cautiously. Food hadn't looked all that good, either, though Hardcastle had done his darndest to be persuasive about cold hotdogs.

All he really wanted to do was sleep, and have it be tomorrow soon, but the damn throbbing was back, and now it included the lower part of his right leg as well. He put the canteen down, untouched, and turned on his side restlessly, trying not to jar his foot as he did so.

"Call Kathy," he said. He saw an immediate, worried look flit across the judge's face and added, "I'm not asking for a continuance. I mean _tomorrow_, when you get to a phone. Tell her I'm all right."

"You mean lie to her?"

Mark smiled. "That's not lying. 'All right' is a relative term. I've been way worse."

"And I'm not calling her until I can put you on the phone. She'll give me hell for leaving you up here by yourself."

"You want me to write you a note?" He realized, as soon as he'd said it, that that one hadn't gone over too well. There were implications to note writing that he didn't want to go into.

"Listen," he said, trying for a tone that wasn't too serious, "she'll understand. She knows you've been looking after me for . . . a while now. She trusts your judgment. Hell, it's better than mine." He looked down in the direction of his foot. "You're gonna have to give me _that_, right?"

Hardcastle shook his head doubtfully. "She's gonna say neither one of us should be let out without a keeper, and even together we don't have enough sense to come in out of the rain."

"Worse than that," Mark's smile broadened, "I think it's synergistic. We are more than the sum of our parts . . . in some totally negative way when it comes to getting into trouble."

The judge nodded glumly. "Something like that. I don't think a note is going to help. I gotta get you to a phone before she has a chance to notice you've gone missing."

"'S'okay," Mark said drowsily, finally feeling sleep starting to pull him under despite everything, "I was getting underfoot." He smiled again. He thought he'd come pretty close to a pun there, but he couldn't quite connect the dots, maybe because his eyes were closed.

00000

Wilmont was up bright and early. He thought maybe he hadn't slept at all. He wondered if he could risk helping himself to some of their supplies after he was finished. Might not be worth the chance, he concluded. Anyway, fasting was supposed to be good for you—cleaned out the system. Not to mention, a little weight off the middle section, that never hurt. What was it they said—the camera adds ten pounds?

He paused on that thought, a little amazed at how well he was _coping_ with it all. He really did have hidden, untapped reserves—not that he'd ever doubted it.

He had the high ground now. He watched from his aerie as the first rays of dawn tracked over the ridge and gradually illuminated the valley. The water was noticeably lower, though still over its banks. The cabin sat in near-darkness, just under the cliff. He saw movement there, though.

As though on a schedule that Etheridge himself had drawn up, he watched the judge step out onto the porch. He hesitated there a moment, turning back toward the door, probably saying something to the man inside. Goodbye, Wilmont hoped. Goodbye and let's get on with this.

But he still waited, quite patiently, even after he saw him head off down the slope and disappear down the muddy bank of the creek. No doubt it would be slow going and he wanted to be certain that Hardcastle had put some distance between himself and the shack. He spent a little of the time looking for the proper rock, something with enough heft, yet a good grip. It seemed right to take some time for that. _God is in the details._

He had it now, exactly what was needed. It felt right in his hand. He moved in closer.

00000

Hardcastle stayed up in close under the cliff, avoiding the worst of the mud. It helped that the water had scoured away a lot of the vegetation. It still felt like it would take the better part of an hour to make it back to the ford, and then at least two more after that to get to the gas station.

He checked his watch and did the math. Noon. It would be close to noon before he could summon any help. He looked back over his shoulder, though he was well out of sight of the cabin; he had been since he'd started out along the creek.

McCormick had been awake and making sense this morning—gray rather than feverish. He'd encouraged a little water into him, hadn't had any success with food—couldn't blame the kid, the pickings had gotten slim and the ice hadn't been intended to hold past Sunday night.

_You'll get him to a hospital by mid-afternoon; they'll get some antibiotics in him and fix him right up . . . or the fever'll kick in, he'll wander outside thinking he's headed for the coffee-room back at the office and fall head-first off a cliff._

_Damn worst-case scenarios_.

He paused in mid-step, looking over his shoulder again, more than half-tempted to turn around and head back—for all he knew help was already on the way; all he had to do was go back and wait for it.

_Or it's not coming yet, and you'll sit there and watch him slip away. Blood poisoning. That's what May and Zora used to call it. It could kill ya without treatment._

He gritted his teeth and forged ahead, making better time now that he was in a wider spot. There was another bend just ahead. He rounded that and pulled up short, suddenly sobered even further by the site of the tent, tangled among the branches of a snag, and smashed up against a projecting wall of the canyon at what had obviously been the high-water mark the night before last.

He walked toward it, pondering. He supposed Mark was right; things might have been much worse. He dropped his gaze, thinking about that for a moment as he started to pick up his pace again.

He stopped. He frowned. He looked to his left at something that had only just then caught his eye. He was staring at another set of footprints. Someone had come down and gone back up the wash again, obviously since the end of the rains. The trail ended among the rocks a short ways up.

He turned. His decision had been so quick he couldn't have even related the line of reasoning out loud.

00000

It couldn't have been easier. Wilmont was stealthy, smooth, absolutely soundless. Even the sodden conditions seemed to be in his favor—every formerly creaky board on the porch was firmly swollen into position against its neighbors.

The man inside was on the floor, facing the door but his eyes closed. With any sort of luck he might not even wake up. _He'll never know what hit him._ Wilmont smiled. He usually hated puns.

He stood there for a moment, shifting the stone gently in his hand, checking his grip. The guy's eyes opened. He was looking up at him silently. Wilmont steeled himself. In some odd way he felt as though he was doing this for Evelyn. This man had tried to _use_ her.

The guy on the floor still hadn't said anything. He was squinting. Wilmont realized he must be back-lit, with the sun almost directly behind him, just a little higher. He almost felt as though he ought to re-introduce himself.

_No, that's ridiculous. Just get on with it._

"Etheridge?" The guy asked, as though it'd taken him that long to put two and two together, and he still hadn't come up with anything too alarming.

Wilmont felt obliged to say, "Yes." Mere civility. He hefted the rock. The man's eyes were drawn to it and, too late, he realized he was in trouble. He was trying, with only partial success, to move back out of reach. No quibbling, though, and no whining whatsoever. Just one brief '_Hey_—'

Etheridge raised his arm, poised to strike, and, with a suddenness that surprised even him, the rock came down.

00000

It was a quick walk, verging on a jog. Part of his head was saying, 'Why would he try something now when he hadn't gone through with it before?' Another part had the damning evidence of the footprints, turning back, up the wash, not continuing on toward the ford. Who knew how the mind of someone like that worked? And why the hell had he been willing to bet McCormick's life on it?

He came out into the clearing and came to a full stand, catching his breath. Nothing at all to see. All was quiet. He finally let out the breath, fully prepared to take whatever grief the kid handed him for having an over-active imagination—as long as that was all it had been.

And then he heard it, a keening cry, not all that loud, but horribly piercing over the mindless noise of the creek. He took the slope at a run, reaching for his gun as he went.

It was coming from the cabin, diminished now to a jerking sob. He mounted the porch in one step and swung the weapon through the door.

Mark was sitting against the far wall, sweat-slicked and pale, but looking rational. On the floor between them was a body, fallen face down and half onto the sleeping bag that Mark had been using earlier. It was Etheridge. He wasn't moving.

The sound was coming from a man, just inside the door and sitting on his haunches with his back against the front wall. His face was buried in his hands, almost hidden by a raft of tangled and matted hair. There was a fist-sized rock on the floor in front of him. He swiped once at his nose without lifting his head. He seemed almost not to have noticed the judge's arrival.

"His name is Harry." Mark said quietly. "Harry Beamer. He lives up here."

Hardcastle lowered his gun partway, taking his cue from Mark's tone.

"He knew the woman. Her name was Evelyn."

"She g-gave me a coat," Harry swiped his nose again, and snuffled. "She said I oughta come back down with her. Wasn't safe up here. _Poison_."

"Something about mercury," Mark added.

"Yeah," Hardcastle risked a quick glance back over his shoulder at the cliff above. "Yeah, sometimes, around mines. They used it to process the gold." He stooped and felt for a pulse at Etheridge's neck, never quite turning his back on the other man. Still alive. He looked back at the rock on the floor by Harry.

"She s-said I oughn't eat the fish. They'd make me crazy."

"He's been up here since the 'forties," Mark interjected. "He lives off the land, does some placer mining. Uses a pan."

Harry was nodding along to this, momentarily distracted. Then he rocked back and forth a couple times and sobbed, "She was awful nice."

Hardcastle frowned, bewildered, and blurted out, "So why'd ya kill her?"

This got him a return frown from McCormick and then a slightly indignant, "He didn't. But he _saw_ it happen. Tell him, Harry."

The man stopped rocking. He lifted his head, eyes accusingly fixed on Wilmont, still lying inert. "He grabbed her and she tried to get away. He made her fall off the cliff. I was in the Clementine. I saw what he did."

Hardcastle turned his head slightly toward Mark, dropping his voice. "You got a helluva witness there, Counselor. You gonna try and stack this guy up against our future member of Congress?"

"Wilmont just tried to kill me," Mark said softly. "Harry got the jump on him."

Hardcastle hoped he didn't look as pale as he suddenly felt. He looked back at the crouching man with a new respect.

"Okay," he finally said; it was gentler this time, "you said he pushed her off the cliff. How'd she wind up in the cave?"

"I put her there so she'd be safe."

"She was still alive?" Hardcastle asked in horror. He saw Mark shake his head almost surreptitiously. But, at any rate, subtlety seemed lost on Harry Beamer. He was still rocking.

"I wasn't gonna let him hurt her any more. She was nice. She brought me a coat." He held his arm up, as if to illustrate the point. The sleeve was matted with snot, but it was obviously less far gone than the rest of his clothing.

Hardcastle gave up on that one and turned back to Mark, dropping his voice again, "Then who slugged you the other night?"

"Him." Mark jerked his chin in Harry's direction. "Etheridge uses a larger rock."

Hardcastle looked down at Wilmont, using his foot to edge the man up by one shoulder until he saw it, lying beneath him, three times the size of the other one and wickedly jagged. He swallowed once.

"S-sorry." Beamer was talking again.

"He thought I was going to take her, or . . . who knows?" Mark shook his head slowly. "He's been eating fish out of that creek for forty years."

Hardcastle was still staring at the larger rock. "No proof," he said quietly, "about the woman, I mean."

He didn't have to look up to know Mark was frowning at him again.

Then Harry spoke out of what appeared to be a moment of lucidity. "I have her things." He was scrabbling in the pocket of his coat. "Her people'll want 'em, I s'pose." He fetched out a handful of stuff and handed it over with what seemed to be mournful regret—the stub end of a pencil, a set of keys on a Catalina Island key chain, and a small notebook.

_What she carried with her to the grave, what was important. _It was too late to worry about fingerprints, Hardcastle figured. He took them with an attitude of reverence. The notebook had a fine black leather cover, well-worn from frequent handling. It was monogrammed—a gift, no doubt, from someone who'd known what she needed.

He opened it without the slightest hesitation. The dead had no use for secrets. He found the last entry, neatly written, probably with the pencil he had in his other hand.

'_Meeting: W.E., at Clementine #1, 12 noon, Friday_.'

He looked down at W.E., who was starting to groan and move around a little. He slipped the notebook into his own pocket and reached for the tail of his shirt, to tear off a couple more strips.

00000

It had been a little touch and go there for a bit—not getting Hardcastle to believe that Wilmont was a murderer, no, but the part before that, after the judge had left this morning. Mark thought he might have gone back to sleep—either that or time had begun to slip by again in unacceptable intervals.

When he'd opened his eyes to a human shape in the doorway, he'd thought for one moment that it was the judge, returned too soon to have possibly gone as far as he was supposed to. Wilmont holding a rock over his head was not what he'd been expecting, though it took him less than a full second to accept the reality of it. And the guy _behind_ Wilmont, him not being Hardcastle either, _well, okay, that was weird._

Now Mark knew instinctively that the matter was settled, just from the look on the judge's face as he studied the notebook. Substituting a piece of his shirt tail for his absent handcuffs was only confirmation. Mark tipped his head back against the wall and smiled thinly.

It was then that he became consciously aware of a sound, very faint but growing louder by the second.

"Hey," he said, waving a hand vaguely ceilingward; the sound was clearly audible now, "helicopter. Think we're being rescued?"

Hardcastle must've thought that was a possibility, too, because he broke off what he was doing, passed the gun over to him, then hustled outside. He could see him through the doorway, a little ways off in the open area, looking up and waving his arms. The chopper sounded as if it was nearly overhead now, and like it wasn't moving on for the time being.

Etheridge was awake, too, between the noise and the sudden shock of having his wrists restrained behind him. Hardcastle hadn't bothered to sit him up. He was lying there, prone and glaring, his mouth moving around what looked like some pretty impolitic language. It was inaudible in the din.

Harry had simply buried his face back in his arms again.

Mark wished Hardcase would settle the thing with the helicopter and get back inside. The gun was heavy, and he was thinking it would be really irresponsible to fall back asleep when he'd been left in charge of it.

00000

Mark had slept through most of the rescue. Hardcastle preferred to call it that, not _unconscious_, though he thought sleeping through getting an IV started was a little suspect. But he was mostly awake now, in a hospital bed, with his foot up on pillows and a real dressing on the heel.

"That soft enough for you?" the judge asked.

"Hah," McCormick said drowsily, "I used to sleep on the ground and be glad I had _that._ There were rocks, too." He was still obviously feeling very little pain after what they'd given him in the ER.

"Okay, hotshot. You ready? Can't put it off."

The younger man suddenly looked a lot more awake, maybe even nervous. He nodded once as Hardcastle moved to the bedside, picked up the phone, and dialed. The other end must've been answered immediately—maybe even before the first ring had finished cycling.

The judge was smiling as he spoke into the receiver. "Yeah, kiddo, it's me. See? I promised you as soon as they got him in a room with a phone, here—" He took it from his ear and abruptly handed it to Mark, who swallowed hard and accepted it.

"Hey, Kath." His tone was all nonchalant charm. Hardcastle smiled. He'd heard it often enough to see right through it, and he thought Kathy was a quick study.

Something rather long was being said on the other end, but it couldn't have been too scary; Mark was settling back into the pillows again.

"Yeah, I know." This time he did better; it was more sincere, not so casual. "Really, I'm okay. _Better_." The sincerity was practically shining with virtue. Hardcastle listened for a moment longer and started to head for the door.

"You know, it really wasn't that big a deal," Mark added. Hardcastle kept moving; backsliding was a terrible thing to witness.

"It was just a thorn, see, that's all . . . and it rained some."


End file.
